Hearth
by caprelloidea
Summary: In which Emma is always cold, and Killian is always warm.


Summary: In which Emma is always cold, and Killian is always warm.

Warnings: Smut, angst

Notes: Written for CS January Joy Day 29. Much love and gratitude to the organizers of the CSJJ. Inspired by a prompt from seethelovelyintheworld, who requested a fic where Emma is cold and Killian is warm, and by the beautiful sketch she drew, which you may find as the cover of this story above, or on tumblr.

* * *

It's only when she's taken everything out of the satchel _twice_ – packing it carefully back in after the first, and tearing it right back out – that Emma allows herself to pout. She treats Neverland like a place of action. Whenever she's still, it's a place of mourning, eternal youth and sorrows, and she can't hardly stand it. Can't hardly sleep either. There are sounds echoing through the forest – grating, unnatural noises that belong in the winding, industrial alleys of poorly kept city blocks.

That, and she's sure she's never been this cold in her _life_. So she searches for the sweater she'd brought along, with no luck.

Emma's not unfamiliar with the cold. She'd thought, when she was young, if she just had poor circulation or something. As she grew older, and both places and people of warmth were few and far between, it seemed to have written itself into her bones. The cold seeped outwards from within, not so much the other way around. She'd often wondered how often her mind was playing tricks on her, trying to make her think she was sleeping in creaky, unkempt houses, cracks in the windows and tarps stretched over the holes in the plaster. Or if it was real, if the world really _was_ that cold. In the end, she decided it didn't matter.

Particularly not now, when Henry's life is in danger. So she concedes to another sleepless night, huddling at the edge of their camp, where the shadows are so thick, so swirling, they seem to smell of smoke.

Emma's not alone, though. She's hardly surprised when Hook approaches her, stepping softly across the clearing. She can tell by the look on his face that he knows what she's looking for, how she's feeling, that he's somehow managed to figure her out from the other side of the camp.

He comes closer, at which points she can tell that he _knows_ she knows. Which is convoluted as hell. Though, it seems simple when he approaches her, here in the night, the sound of his boots crushing the underbrush.

"You're cold," he says, stopping just a few feet in front of her.

It's curious, too, the way that he says it, tilting his head and studying her from underneath his lashes. It's unlike the way he's teased her, the way he's admired her, the way he'd watched her walk away after she kissed the color back into his face.

She answers with a stubborn and quiet – " _Nuh-uh._ " – before she can think of anything else. Even as she denies it, she draws her knees up to her chest. She hates the way her sweat cools in the stray breeze, the way the skin on the inside of her elbows clams up and sticks together. She _especially_ hates that the wind picks up, carrying both an elevated chorus of mournful cries _and_ air just chilly enough to make her shiver.

"Shivering from my presence alone, then, are you, Swan?"

It's not like she has to answers him, or even that she should. David and Mary Margaret are slumbering near a weak pile of embers, Neal somewhere close by. And since she allowed herself to kiss him, she has the overwhelming urge to either do it again, or punch him in the face – she can't decide which. It's funny how easy it is to confuse the two. Emma doesn't want to start a commotion, and she's just about had it with this stupid jungle in this stupid realm. She looks up at him so she can tell him, opens her mouth to force him on the exact _opposite_ side of their camp. But before she can, he takes a seat beside her, not before shrugging off his coat, and laying it across the fallen tree at her back.

"I don't remember inviting you to sit next to me," she says, looking at him with what she hopes is an unimpressed sort of look.

But he doesn't snark at her or waggle his eyebrows or smiles disarmingly. He merely reclines his head when he says, "Would you like me to go?"

It startles her. She's not sure why.

"Uh…"

 _Yes_ , her mind supplies. She can't seem to say it out loud.

 _No_ , it offers instead.

"Whatever," she says.

He gives _her_ a look this time, and Emma thinks he's probably much better than she is at the whole _unimpressed_ thing. She throws her hands up in the air.

"Fine, no, I don't want you to go."

Again, she expects bravado, but nothing comes. Just silence and weirdly comfortable _dis_ comfort that comes when the she can practically _feel_ the heat seeping from his fingers, pressed to the ground beside hers.

"You're warm," she says.

"Pardon?"

"I'm cold, you're warm."

He does smile, then, and there's dry humor in the way his lips pull back over his teeth. "Would you like a hug, darling?"

" _No_. I just…well, I uh…"

She glances at his coat, the sleeve of which is brushing against her elbow. Which, she realizes after a moment, is because he's pushing it across the gap between them. He doesn't say anything as she eyes it, not when she touches it, not even when she draws it over her shoulders.

"God," she says, "what are you, a space heater? This thing is like a million degrees."

Hook's bound to tease her then, to ask curiously after whatever the hell he might be imagining a _space heater_ is. But he only watches her, his smile drifting quickly in and out of view.

"Why are you cold, Swan?"

Emma frowns. It unnerves her, that same feeling she'd had when he'd claimed to know her on the beanstalk curling in her chest. She pulls tighter on the collar of his coat, even as she pushes him away.

"I don't know, because the _air_ is cold?"

He doesn't say anything, regarding her with wide eyes and an earnest expression. It fades, quickly, and he gets to his feet, stepping back towards the other side of the camp.

"Don't you want your coat?" she says.

"Keep it for the night, Swan," he answers. He's carefully neutral, though he smiles, faintly, when he says, "I've been told I'm something of a – a _space heater_ , anyway."

She doesn't want to smile, but she does, watching the shadows swallow him up as she burrows down into his coat.

* * *

Fall in New York City had always been Emma's favorite time and place. It's like, one abruptly chilly morning, the world wakes up, and it's painted in shades of nightfall. She and Henry would take walks in Central Park, where oak trees older than Hook sprawl out under open air.

The operating words here, of course, are _had_ and _Hook_. The latter of the two is currently sitting in her apartment, swirling liquor in a crystal glass, the same he'd abandoned before her erstwhile boyfriend turned into a fucking _flying_ _monkey_.

"I'm sure this is all gonna come back to bite me some day," Emma says, gesturing vaguely to the room.

Hook looks at her, the same dark – sort of…lost – expression on his face that he's worn since they sat back down at her table. There's a spark of laughter, though, when he says, "To _bite_ you?"

"Listen, Hook, don't start with me."

He smiles, humorlessly, and casts his eyes back downwards, wandering over the floors and along the walls, the wide windows. She wonders if he's just overwhelmed by the city, or avoiding looking at her. Maybe both. Which is a little disconcerting. She's used to having him behind her, in a sense, and now here he is, dragging his feet.

"What's wrong with you?" Emma says.

He looks back up at her. "Wrong?"

"Uh, sorry, I mean…are you okay?"

He responds with a subtle quirk in his brow. "I'm fine, love. In fact, I believe I should be asking you how _you're_ faring, given the circumstances."

It feels like a diversion, and if it is, it's a good one. She's been trying not to think about it, but the longer they sit quietly, listening to the water rumble through the pipes, the faint sounds of traffic and sirens, the irritating _tick tock_ of the clock by the doorway – well, the deeper it all begins to sink. Down and down, until the chill in the room, and the terrible feeling in her chest, has her tugging at the sleeves of her sweater.

"Honestly?" she says, which she realizes is usually rhetorical, but she waits for him to lean forward.

"I would not have asked if I didn't truly want to know."

"Fine. Well, _not_ fine. I could list it all out, but you've been here for most of it. I'll have to keep this all from Henry, somehow, and convince him that a guy in a pirate outfit is a work colleague or whatever. Oh, and to top it all off, the heat must not be working right because it's _freezing_ in here."

Hook tilts his head from one side to the other, chooses to zero in the latter, of all things. Maybe because there isn't anything he can do about the other two, maybe because of the way he'd cast his eyes down when she'd mentioned him.

"It feels quite comfortable to me, Swan," he says. "A bit overwarm, even."

Emma scoffs, and gets up to pour herself a drink of something different. Though, she's sidetracked by this sight of the lights glittering just outside her window, how it makes her feel small, something she suddenly and desperately needs. She sighs, and watches the lights glitter, how they spread in even, geometric patterns along the skyline. She knows, somewhere, the grand, arching bridges around Manhattan cut them into pieces. But it's too foggy to see that far. The Hudson's favorite thing to do in the fall, seems like, is to coordinate with the ocean to spit haze all over the city. It makes her feel even colder just looking at it, and she realizes that she doesn't want a drink, or hot chocolate, or a pile of blankets, or any of that stuff.

"Swan?" Hook says. He's closer, now, and it makes her jump.

She looks at him over her shoulder, watches him scratch just behind his ear, a little sheepish in the way he apologizes for startling her.

"I don't want any more to drink," Emma says, matter-of-factly, turning to face him.

Confusion looks good on him, she thinks errantly. "Alright…"

"I _don't_ want to stand here looking out this stupid window anymore either."

Hook, to his credit, catches on quickly. It's become something of a pattern, something else she doesn't want to think about.

"What _do_ you want?" he says.

"For you to be quiet and just…"

Emma can't say it. So she does it instead, stepping closer and reaching out until her hand is reaching under his coat, grasping a handful of his thin, leather vest. Already the heat rushes into her fingers, tingling in her palms and down towards her wrists. She does the same with her other hand, watching his face while she does. Where before he seemed concerned, now he's completely unreadable. Maybe there's something tragic, something hopeful, something else a little desperate. But she's not sure, and she doesn't want to dwell on it, so she just breathes, and waits, bidding herself not to think to hard. She recognizes the same struggle in him, and he hesitates. But then, he takes a deep breath, and his hand falls carefully on her shoulder, drifting gingerly over her back. He takes a step forward and, like she's wanted since she first remembered, she's enveloped in the leather of his coat, in the smell of conditioner and salt water and expensive, amber alcohol. It should probably be awkward, she thinks, and she should probably feel bad. It's obvious how he feels. But when he sighs, and his breath is warm against the side of her neck, just below her hear, she can't quite muster up the strength to step away.

"You're a bloody ice bath, Swan," he says. "Why?"

"I think we agreed that you were gonna shut up."

"I don't recall agreeing to that."

Emma makes a sort of exasperated noise against his chest. Her fingers start to itch, and doubt begins to well up, a vague, uncomfortable feeling rising in her blood. She pulls away. Hook seems reluctant, but is pliant, arms falling to his sides when she takes two steps backwards, nearly pressed against the window.

"Why?" he repeats.

She shakes her head. "Long day tomorrow. You should probably go."

Hook's eyes, expressive and bright in the lamplight, shutter away from her, and he leaves with little ceremony, promising to return in the morning.

She hardly sleeps, feeling colder than she ever remembers.

* * *

"You're still so cold," Killian says.

Emma sighs. Two _days_ ago, he'd carried her from the ice wall, desperately trying to coax some warmth back into her body. She appreciates the effort, she really does, but –

"It's getting to be a little much, don't you think?"

The man has the audacity to blush, reaching up to scratch at his jaw, just below his ear. There's something a little frustrating about it, and about the way he wears a white cotton shirt and thin, comfortable pants, both of which she's sure he borrowed off her father, too reluctant to leave her where he can't see. It had charmed Emma, warmed her even, the way he'd been smiling at her gently, wrestling with the stove to make her hot chocolate. He's keeping her company now, while both her father and her mother work, having _both_ given her an unimpressed _look_ when she'd gotten up in time to go to work. Killian had still been lying on the couch when her parents had convinced her to take another day off, promising that there was an ungodly amount of cereal in the cupboard above the fridge that she was welcome to hoard.

"Sorry, love," he says, quietly.

Emma has a bowl of mixed cereal – which Killian had eyed and then refused – underneath her chin, legs splayed out on his lap while they lounge on the couch. It's a gray, drab sort of day, the light that spills in through the loft windows muted and hazy. It falls over him softly, highlighting the muss in his hair and the red in his beard. His face is scrubbed clean, and it makes him look young.

Young and pouty.

"What's that look for?" she says.

Killian looks her in the eye, growing serious, reaching underneath the absurdly plural number of blankets to wrap his fingers around her ankle.

"I only worry for you, Swan," he says. "Magic certainly erected that barrier. I fear it might have…sunk into your skin."

Emma reaches over, and sets her cereal on the table so she can lean forward and push her hand in his hair. His eyelashes flutter, and he turns into it, his body arching, leaning against the cushion until, if she wanted to, she could slide easily into his lap.

"You think I'm cursed?" she says.

"I'm entertaining the possibility."

"Well, then, stop – " She waves her hand around, searching for the right word. " – letting it entertain you, or whatever."

Killian smiles, briefly distracted. "You have an awfully lyrical way with words in the morning, darling."

"Seriously," she says, and with her hands reaching for his shoulders – he anticipates, like he tends to, leaning forward to catch her – she shuffles over onto his lap. It's something new for them. Most things are. She'd never seen him in anything but leather and eyeliner until yesterday, never seen him without his brace until today, never seen him express his snobbish breakfast food preferences. And now she's perched on his lap, losing herself for a moment while she adjusts. It occurs to her then how thin pajamas are, and now _she's_ blushing.

" _Seriously_ ," she repeats, emphatically. "I'm fine. I'm _always_ this cold. Don't you remember complaining at me about this before?"

"Aye. It's just…I worry for you, Swan. I always have. I suppose now I'm just allowing it to show."

There's a confession there, Emma realizes. And before he can voice it – although, given the way he hesitates, she wonders whether he actually _would_ – she kisses him. She means for it to be soft, and sweet, and comforting. For a moment, it is, and he's relaxed beneath her, heavy and boneless. His hand wanders over her back and down her thigh. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, clearly disconcerted with how cold she is _everywhere_. But she doesn't want to hear about it anymore, so she leans further still, until their hips are flesh, and every breath he takes presses the charms around his neck into her sternum.

When Killian breaks away from her mouth, whispering things she doesn't understand into her neck, his lips warm and wet while they wander, Emma makes a mess of his shirt, reaching back to grasp it in handfuls.

"Are we really gonna have sex for the second time on my parent's couch?" she says.

"Third," he answers, automatically, tugging at the hem of her shirt, fingers crawling up her ribs.

Emma laughs, or giggles really, helpless to the tickling sensation of the rough pads of his fingers against sensitive skin.

"Third?" she says, half incredulous, half preoccupied with the way his hips shift restlessly against hers.

"Aye, at Granny's."

"That was _once_. That makes this two."

Killian leans back, and smiles up at her. Though he still shifts restlessly underneath her, and she can feel him growing harder, he seems unhurried. He reaches for every patch of bare skin he can find, now growing playfully aghast at how chilly she is.

"Is this the part where you make innuendo-y comments about how you're gonna warm me up?"

"First," he says. His voice is deeper now, rasping at the edges of everything he says. He toys with the waistband of her pajamas, teasing lower and lower, speaking directly into her ear as he does. "What an excellent idea, Swan, I'll keep that in mind. Second, innuendo-y?"

"Oh, God, whatever, just – "

Right then, he does _just_ , pushing her back so he can rub gently between her legs. Though Emma's reluctant to admit it, she's still tired, and it shows in the way she falls apart in his arms, boneless before she's even come, pressing weakly on his shoulders to give him just enough room to keep doing what he's doing.

"Why are you always so cold?" he says, when she's found her release, when she's stepped out of her bottoms and underwear and crawled back onto him, condom in hand.

This is new too, Emma thinks. Watching his lust simmer quietly, where before it's always seemed to have something of a brash ego. Though his eyes are dark, and his breath is shallow, he watches her, wearing the same caring, eager, worried expression he's worn for the past forty-eight hours. So she stops, feeling a little ridiculous standing half-naked in front of him, fiddling with the foil in her hands like it's some kind of casual little knick-knack.

"I don't know," she whispers, at length. It's not quite a lie, but it's obviously _not_ true. Emma holds her breath, waits for him to prod at her, the way he often does. But she _really_ doesn't want him to, and he seems to sense it, sighing before he lets a charming smile settle back on his face. She's not allowed herself to just look at him long enough since she met him to know whether or not it's a little forced.

"So," she says, trying to appear casual in the way she shifts from one foot to the other. "You still want to…?"

Emma gestures between them, and well now he looks _actually_ aghast.

"Why would you say that?"

She shrugs, weakly. "I don't know, you seem a little upset, I guess?"

Killian shakes his head, and reaches out to take a hold of her hand. "If I'm upset at anything, Swan, it's that there's anything in this realm that's hurt you. You are certainly not under any obligation to reveal anything to me."

She looks at him, thinks of at least half a dozen things she wants to say to him. And she hopes she says some of them, at least, with the way she squeezes his fingers and says, "So, yes?"

He seems to understand her, and smiles. "Aye."

Emma hesitates, thinking of the first time they'd done this, how he'd tried to kiss every part of her body, how close she'd held him, how it felt to have his hair brush over her nipples. Then to have him lean over her and just _look_ the way they both know he feels about her straight into her eyes. She considers doing the same, but where her desire had simmered the last time –

"Last _two_ times, Swan."

"Last _singular_ time."

– now it burns. When she leans down to yank off his pants, she can tell by his expression that he feels the same way, though he protests quietly when she bends to pull them off his feet.

"Not sure those need to go altogether."

"I'm not fucking you while you're wearing my dad's old pajamas."

"Good point."

His shirt follows, and to keep it fair, she pulls off her own shirt too, tossing it over her head, wincing when something falls to the ground.

Emma bites her lip, leaning down to roll the condom over him. "Oops. That wasn't glass, was it?"

Killian takes a sharp breath, a whimper hanging at the end. His voice is strained when he answers, almost adorably high-pitched. "Whatever it was didn't break, Swan, so it's irrelevant."

She doesn't reply. There's a bit of fumbling. So much of his body is still unfamiliar to her, and hers to him. When she slides down onto him, though, _that_ is quickly becoming something she's getting used to. If she thinks about it hard enough, it pulls something deep in her chest, something that makes her restless and frightened. She holds onto him instead, pressing her cheek against his, breathing quietly into his ear until she comes, and then until he follows.

"Still cold?" he asks, when they're both clean and dressed, resting on the couch as though nothing had happened between them. But now, the satiation still buzzing in her blood, fresh socks pulled over her feet, blankets piled on her legs, and his open and genuine expression pouring over her, Emma shakes her head.

"Nope," she says, only just a _little_ untruthfully. "Nice and warm."

* * *

There's something different about the cold, now.

Emma can still feel it, but with the darkness pulsing out from her heart, it's something she can't recognize. It doesn't make her in the least bit uncomfortable. Killian had remarked on it, when they were still in Camelot, before she'd watched as his life drain away, held his hand as it grew colder even than hers.

"You're awfully cold, darling," he'd said. "Even more so than usual."

"It's fine, I don't really feel it."

Which hadn't quite been true. Maybe the first in a stream of bold untruths, dark waters that obscure everything now. Everything besides the fact that death has come for him, and she's decided it has to wait its fucking turn.

But even with the power – an immeasurable amount, really, living dozens of lifetimes over hundreds of years – she can't stop it. And so the cold comes back, coming back to life, as it were, right before he dies.

"It's okay," he says. The last thing he ever says to her.

Emma almost believes him, maybe just because she _wants_ to so bad.

But, the very next day, when she lies prone on the couch – lost in mourning, and the cold _really_ begins to seep in, no one to caress or talk or fuck the cold out of her – she realizes what a lie that is. It's convenient, then, when the voices begin to whisper in her mind, dragging her out of her house and down to Gold's.

Though, she realizes, while she gather her family in her parents' apartment, she would have gone down to Killian anyway.

"Are you sure about this, Emma?" her father says. They're tucked quietly away in the corner while her mother and the rest talk the logistics of going to the _Underworld_ , for fuck's sake.

"Are you _not_?"

"That's not what I mean. I just…this is going to be dangerous. I don't want to lose a friend _and_ a daughter."

She smiles, tremulous, unsteady on her feet. David choses that moment, as in tune with her as he is, to reach down and gather her in his arms. She's a little horrified when fresh tears well up in her eyes, here in a room with just about everyone she knows. His arms tighten, and he shushes her like she imagines he would have, had she been able to stay with them after she was born.

"I don't want to be cold anymore, Dad," Emma says, crying into the crook of his elbow.

"You won't be," he answers, immediately, sure and steadfast. "We'll find him, and you won't be."

Emma nods, and hugs him tighter, and hopes.

* * *

Emma had heard several of his stories. She remembers, as she fights through the realm of the dead, how he'd spoken of the Underworld in passing. When he was a child, he said, tales of the realm were often met with fire. Or ice. Always to the extreme. He'd described in artful detail a wooden relief that once sat on the desk of Captain Silver, the gaping maw of a frozen cave, painted carefully in shades of gray and wisps of blue. Paint that flaked beneath his fingertips when he'd go sneaking down beneath the deck.

Liam would always find him, he'd say. Tip-toeing where he shouldn't be.

"He'd scold me, of course," Killian had said to her, wrapped in darkness in the bowels of his ship, speaking tales she was sure the _Jolly Roger_ hadn't heard in actual ages. "All he'd have to do was call my name. So much held in so little…the grave disappointment of a brother whose shadow could swallow me whole."

She wasn't sure how to comfort him then, and she feels like she's in the same place now, torn between the knowledge that he'd chosen to stay, while his brother had moved on. So she'd thrown her arms around him in lieu of anything else, after he'd declared himself in that dramatic, genuine way he does, kissing her like he never had before and might never get to do it again. Her hat is tucked low over her head, down over her ears, so she can feel the rustle of his beard against the soft cotton when he leans into her, holds her just a little too tight.

"Killian," she says, when he sighs, his breath ruffling down over his shoulder.

"I know what you're thinking, Swan." He leans back, smiling fondly, reaching up to pull her hat straight. "And it's alright. I'll be alright."

"You sure?"

"Aye. My brother has been trapped in this realm for centuries, and now he's free. I'm sorry to see him go, but also…happy to see him go."

"That's complicated."

Killian laughs, softly, and Emma's pressed in so tight, she can feel it rumbling in her chest. He watches her, and she wonders if he's going to say something else. But he seems content to look at her, to reach up under her jacket and spread his palm across his back. Warmth seeps out through the palm of his hand, and though, by all rights, she should be overjoyed, her lip begins to tremble, her fingers – numb as they are – curling in the lapels of his jacket, like if she lets them go, it will be the last time.

"What is it?" he says, face falling in mirror to her own.

"I just…" She opens her mouth, several times in fact, but can't seem to say what she wants. It all comes out of her hands instead, reaching up to grasp at his shoulders, to touch his neck and his jaw, to reach back down and tuck her hands underneath his jacket.

"You can't leave," she says, clearing her throat when her voice breaks. "I…I won't ever be warm again if you leave."

Killian's answering expression is so soft, she can't help but smile, tremulous as it feels.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says. He doesn't need to say anything, she thinks. His face – the way that he smiles, the way his brow draws down, the way he looks at her as though there isn't anything _but_ her – says what even he can't. The moment settles warm and heavy in her belly. Which, given the chills racing up and down her arms, is more than a little welcome. Killian feigns exasperation, rubbing harder at her back.

"You are bloody freezing, aren't you darling," he says.

"You say that like you're surprised."

"If anyone were to guess, they'd say I were here to get you, not the other way around."

"You can laugh all you want as long as you just…" Emma wriggles in his arms tucking herself under his chin. "…just stay like that."

"Aye," he says, quietly.

For the first time since she first told him she loved him, there before the darkness took her away from herself, the chill abates.

* * *

Emma figures it's the bare, frozen hand on his stomach that does it.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Killian's voice is quiet and gruff, muffled from outside her cocoon beneath the covers. He startles to wakefulness, his hand slipping down his belly to catch her wrist.

"Sorry, _sorry_ ," Emma whispers, carefully setting the hem of his shirt back into place. "I swear to God that was an accident."

He shifts, lifting the comforter, peering at where she's clinging to him, her legs wrapped tightly around his, her head resting on his stomach. To his credit, Killian looks more amused than anything else, looking her all over before quirking a brow, laughter shining in his eyes.

"You look like you're climbing a bloody tree," he says.

Emma tries not to look quite as sheepish as she feels.

"Sorry," she repeats. "It's just, it started snowing and it's windy and this house is so _old_ , and maybe the radiator is broken or something because, uh – and well I just was kinda moving around and my hand on your stomach just went…"

She gestures, feigning a sort of slipping motion. She's more than aware that Killian doesn't get much sleep as it is, often lying awake for long hours before rising with the dawn. It's natural, then, she thinks, for him to be irritated that she woke him up with cold fingers, muttering complete nonsense when she tries to explain herself. Even so, she's only a little surprised when he reaches up and pulls at the covers, wriggling until they're _both_ swimming in sheets and blankets. Emma can see the warmth rushing to his cheeks, even in the darkness, is sure that she and her sweater and her fuzzy pants _and_ her socks have him feeling like there's an inferno raging in the bed. But he hooks his wrist under her arm, pulling at her elbow until she's lying against his chest.

"Cold?" he says.

Rhetorically, of course, but she can't help but answer, in a small voice, "Yeah."

"Darling," he says, holding her tight, "your body is certainly a marvel – "

"I guess this is where the sex joke goes."

He laughs. "A sheet, four blankets, and myself, and you're _still_ cold. Your toes are absolutely frozen."

"You can feel my _toes_?"

"Aye, can't you?"

"No. That's kind of the point."

His eyes twinkle, and he pushes a stray tuft of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

"Do you recall Neverland – "

"Uh, yeah, that was only like a couple years ago."

Killian huffs, fondly exasperated, reaching down beneath her sweater to press his hand to her back. The warmth, and the relief, are almost immediate. Emma can feel a shiver race down her spine, tingling where his fingers flex over her skin.

"Do you recall," he says, "that even the jungle couldn't keep you warm? I didn't know you then as I do now. I was terrified."

She frowns. "You were?"

He nods. "Aye. I was frightened you'd caught a fever. You must have thought me a nuisance at the time, but I came to you so that I could make certain you weren't taking ill."

"Who knows, maybe I did."

"No, Swan. Illnesses in Neverland aren't as they seem. It's magic that catches you there. I've seen perfectly healthy men and women wither away in a matter of hours. No herb or potion could mend them."

"Oh wow." Emma watches his face, watches him drift away. He gets like this, she notices, especially now that they share a bed. At night, when it's quiet, his past seems to talk a little louder.

"Glad I'm not dead," she says, glibly, glad that it has the intended effect.

Killian smiles, brilliantly, holding her tighter still. "As am I."

Emma feels her body grow limp as he strokes the chill out of her body. He even nudges her feet, pressing and rubbing until heat tingles deep in her belly. Not the kind that makes her want to reach down his pants – well, a _little_ of that kind – but a sort of gentle buzz that chases away the last of the numbness from the tips of her fingers. The wind seems to pick up, whining through the warped glass windows. The radiator stirs, coughing warm, wet air into the room. Emma's sure he's burning up. She can feel the sweat on the palm of his hand. His breath is even warmer than usual, washing over her hair and down her back.

 _Don't you want to be comfy too?_ she thinks, sleepily. But she can't quite bring herself to say anything, pooling over his body, the soft, worn fabric of his shirt pressed against her nose. She can feel herself about to fall when he shifts, pulling the covers down just a bit more. Starlight spills in through the window and over his face. Killian smiles down at her, brilliant and wide, coaxing her gently until they're both lying on their sides. He doesn't go far, still holding her tight to his chest, grasping the covers and tucking them at her back.

"Why?" he says.

"Why what?"

"Why are you always cold? I don't think you've ever told me."

Emma shrugs, pouting at the relative loss of heat. "I don't know. Bad circulation?"

His eyes twinkle. "I'd like to think I know you better than that, darling."

She squirms in place, very nearly kneeing him in the groin as she moves closer still, eyes going cross when she looks down at his mouth. Months ago, she can imagine what her reply would have been. _Why are_ you _always warm?_ She's sure he would have had a perfectly ridiculous innuendo ready in answer. In fact, she nearly says it now, just to watch him smirk.

"I could just never get warm," she says, watching his dimples flash as he licks his lower lip, watching her intently. "I spent so long feeling cold, when I was young. It's like it became a part of me. And I just…"

Emma shrugs. Killian watches her, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I know how it feels," he says. "I'd been in Neverland for decades when I realized."

"Realized what?"

"That I wasn't cold anymore."

"So I just need to live in Neverland for like a hundred years? That's great."

Killian smiles, briefly, before he grows serious, that gentle, pleasing expression he always wears before he says something impossibly earnest. His eyes are wide, focused so intently on her face that she can't help but look back at him.

"One day, Emma," he says, "you'll wake up and realize – you're not cold anymore."

Emma smiles, faintly, tugging her hand out from where it's trapped between them, reaching up to touch his jaw, to follow the line until it disappears beneath his hair. She tells him silently, dragging her nails over his scalp until his eyes darken, tells him that she loves him.

Out loud, of course, she answers him, "Like, metaphorically _not_ cold, or literally _not_ cold."

Killian's nostrils flare. "You're quite impossible. Are you aware?"

"I've heard that before."

He smiles. And so does she. Killian doesn't often let things go. It's not in his nature. He knows that there's more she's not telling him, all the sordid tales, every home she's lived in, every blustery night, every inadequate pair of socks and threadbare blanket. And, well, she _knows_ that he knows. Knows he knows that too. But exhaustion falls back on him in stages, robbing him first of coherence. He mutters quietly before he grows heavy at her side, fingers sliding off her hip and down by her back. But his breath is hot and his body is just the right side of overwarm. So she falls asleep, feet between his, head beneath his chin, feeling just as warm as he'd promised.


End file.
